


Confession

by SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blood Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Keir hating on Lancelot, M/M, No negotion, Oral Sex, Possessive Lancelot, Possessive Sex, Prayer, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Shameless Smut, spit for lube, uhhh I think thats everything?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29604303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight/pseuds/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight
Summary: Lancelot witnesses something he wasn't supposed too, or well that depends on who you ask. Turns out he is very territorial and possessive, and really doesn't like it when other people touch his things, or in this case the person that he has laid claim too. In the end a confession is made and he gets what he wants. Not without a bit of suffering for both our boys though.This is not an ABO fic, but that really makes it seem like one.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Netflix's Cursed - Monthly prompts picked by a cursed bot!





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

> uh, HI. 
> 
> Enjoy? 
> 
> Let me know if I should add anything to the tags.

CONFESSION:

Kier and Mithela are packed and ready to go. He isn’t far behind them but Lancelot is, almost purposefully dragging his feet and it shows. WIth a sigh Gawain turns towards the two and gives a meaningful order.

“You two scout ahead.” They obey with little reluctance mounting their horses and heading into the woods. There hadn’t really been a reason for four of them to accomplish what he and Lancelot could have done alone; however, the council had opted to err on the side of caution, they called it. Really, they didn’t want their best warrior alone with a former enemy, even if he had proven time and time again he could be trusted.    
  
MIthela nods to him, flicks her eyes across the clearing and sets out, Keir ignores him. He isn’t surprised by the new behavior. He hadn’t really been himself last night and it had made things awkward between them. He would have to have a word with him about it later. MIthela had accepted it for what it was and left it be. Content to share stories around the fire instead. Now he was alone with his friend and companion for a moment and couldn’t help but watch him work, quietly, and much more slowly than normal. 

  
Hazel green eyes track every movement of the distraught man pacing the other side of the clearing. Gawain remains silent, barely blinking, as he studies uncharacteristically jerky movements. Something is clearly troubling Lancelot today as he set to work on packing, that was why he had sent the others ahead. From the outside he seemed like an immovable, stoic, statue of a man. The truth was much different. Lancelot was incredibly moody, emotional, and even expressive in his own way. Which was surprising to anyone who had the audacity, or courage to get to know him. Like Percival. Like Pym. Like Gawain. The truth was, Lancelot was one of the most philosophical and deeply feeling men Gawain had ever met. The man felt everything innately and profoundly, and when he was safe, like he was in this clearing with Gawain, he had learned he could indeed show those parts of himself. One of the main problems is that he often does not know how. 

This stemmed from the trauma of his early childhood and the rest of his life as well. All his life he had been forced to repress, subdue, ignore, and neglect every part of his natural self. To hide it away, to bleed it out, to punish himself for feeling anything that deviated from the paladins teachings. Now, Lancelot was in a space, surrounded by individuals with whom it was safe to express himself. In his own little ways, Lancelot was beginning to do so. The manner in which he did so was not always healthy, or even the best way to express what he was feeling, but Gawain wouldn’t tell him that yet. The fact that he showed what he felt at all, in any capacity was a good thing, he would not risk it. This little progress had taken nearly a year, it was Autumn again, and today, it seemed that Lancelot's self expression was overly aggressive and stiff movements as he packed away his part of the supplies.    
  
“Lancelot?” He starts slowly, unsure if he should ask what is going on or wait for the dark haired man to come out with it himself. However, it seemed that either Lancelot hadn’t heard him, lost in thought perhaps, or he was choosing to ignore Gawain's question in favor of finishing up his current task. With a sigh, Gawain stands and finishes his own work. He will let Lancelot speak in his own time. He watches around Gringolet and notes the tension contracting every visible fibre of Lancelot's skin, the way his teeth grind, and he white knuckles everything he touches, the way his shoulders hunch up under his ears making him look small. Gawain is almost certain that the man is frustrated by something. However, picking out what it could be is beyond him. They’ve been on the road for three days, their mission complete, and are looking forward to returning to the fey camp. To Percival. To Pym. To the tent they call their home. With a small grunt he mounts Gringelot and waits for Lancelot to follow suit on Goliath. 

The ex paladin follows suit quickly, quietly, with the efficiency of practiced ease. He is lithe and graceful, and everybit an acrobat as he is a warrior. Often, Lancelot reminds him of the White Lions he observed in the markets, read about from the Savannah: regal, majestic,prideful, deadly, territorial.   
  
_ Oh,  _ His mind supplies,  _ oh, that might be exactly what the issue is.  _ He thinks, mouth going dry as he glances at the man on his right. Always and intentionally to his right. If only he would notice it. But that would be little comfort to him if he had been a witness to Keir's intent last night.

+++++++++++++Last Night+++++++++++

  
_ Absently he had sat himself between Keir on his left and Lancelot on his right as they circled around the fire eating their supper. Lancelot had managed over the course of the day to bring down several grouse, with well aimed shots, courtesy of his nose and skill. The foul was good, better than the bread and salted meat they had been eating up until this point. They had all said their thanks of course, Gawain more readily than the others. Lancelot had not been asked, had simply done and that was always worth praising in the man. It was another step away from the ingrained responses he had been trained to be obedient towards and another step towards his own autonomy. Another step towards equality.  _

_ When they had finished their supper and wiped the grease from their fingers it was time to retire to sleep. They would be returning to the Fey camp by nightfall if they left at dawn. Tonight it was Lancelot's turn for the first watch and so he stood and found the perimeter of the camp. He would walk it then stop for a while and continue the pattern until it was time to switch. Gawain would take second watch, and as such knew he would likely not see much sleep before then. He lingered near the fire for a moment, listening to the sounds around them. The nights had begun to grow cold as Autumn's fingers caressed the land and he enjoyed the crackling warmth of the gloating coals in front of him. Keir remained a moment as well, though Mithela had gone to relieve herself. Gawain stared straight ahead, unsure why Keir was still sitting beside him instead of going to bed. Well mostly unsure. Okay, not unsure at all. This was not the first time he had been on a mission with the man, so when a hand, gentle but firm rests just above his knee, he can’t say he’s surprised. They've lain together before.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I was wondering,” Keir starts, voice sweet and low, whispering against his ear, “If you might be inclined towards a little company this evening?” The request drips with want, even as Keirs nose brushes gently against the juncture of his jaw mimicking the caress of fingers drifting slowly up and down the inside of his thigh, before the brush of lips graces his neck. Gawain stares stoically at the flames and swallows. There is a part of him that wants to say yes, get to his feet and haul this man into the woods for some privacy, but a bigger part of him says no. No, it’s not him you want anyways. So gently he lays his hand over Keir’s and stops the methodical movement, leans his face and torso away from the touch until he can’t feel his breath on his skin.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I’m afraid I’m not much in the mood for that tonight.” He lies easily through his teeth, all charm and charisma, calm and detached despite the slight arousal bubbling in him at the thought of it, the memory of past encounters. Kier takes the hint and sits back slightly, and although Gawain has removed his own hand from over top his, Keir leaves his in place. It is a heavy weight against his skin.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “And there is no way for me to persuade you?” Gawain turns to him now, eyes soft as he keeps himself polite and in check.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “No, I don’t think so.” Keir does remove his hand now and narrows his eyes, frowns. In the flickering light of the flames it almost looks like he is alight with anger.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Would that be because you’ve suddenly lost your taste for clean faced consorts in favor of tear stained traitors?” His voice is a loud hiss in the stillness of the dark, and it chills Gawain to the bone better than any frost he has ever slept in. He stares back at Keir mustering all of his experience in leadership to send a look that means drop this now. He feels his posture go rigid and straight, drawing himself to full height. Keir shrinks back some and then shakes his head.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Of all the people, you might have chosen in the camp,” He scoffs, spits on the ground, “You choose a demon in fey skin.” With that he stands and pointedly moves his bedroll closer to MIthelas spot. He has just settled in when she returns. Furrowing her eyebrows she casts a glance at Gawain, then at Keir then back in Gawain's direction, but not at him. HIs stomach sinks and he wonders how much of that Lancelot had seen, how much he had heard, and most importantly, what he had smelled. He doesn’t turn to look at him, pretends not to sense him there. If Lancelot knows that he knows he there he hopes he sees it as an act of trust that he keeps his back turned despite Mithelas gaze. He forces himself to relax, he doesn’t sleep before he takes watch. Lancelot doesn’t return his smile, barely acknowledges him. Gawain chalks it up to weariness. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ ++++++++++now+++++++ _ _   
_ There has not been a silence so tense and uncomfortable between them since the beginning. Even then, there hadn’t been as much silence. Instead there had been questions, comments,and unmitigated anger filling the time the two spent alone. Lancelot had been inquisitive, insightful, and boiling with the anger of loss and grief and had let it out, writhing, and screaming, and bleeding. When he had recovered, over the course of some months, he and Gawain often debated between the two of them. The topic never mattered much to Gawain, what had mattered was the way Lancelot discussed it, what he thought of it, said about it, what could be implied, inferred, derived from the man's thoughts and opinions. He himself had always spoken truthfully, but they had never come to blows when they disagreed instead, the two would recognize it as another of their differences and move on. The differences were fewer than they had any right to be. 

Now his skin prickles as they ride in silence, MIthela and Keir far enough ahead to be seen but not to overhear any conversation that does begin. If they were further away from the Fey camp Gawain would insist they ride closer together but here, the biggest concern is wild animals, not paladins. Taking a risk he glances over at Lancelot, shoulders squared and back rigid as he faces forward, teeth still clenched, knuckles white where he grips Goliath's reins. He is a statue, barely breathing as his lips draw into a thin line. He follows Lancelot's line of sight, and notes that it lands on Keir. His stomach sinks and he lets out an audible sigh. How is he supposed to deal with this. It’s certainly not the most compromising position he’s been caught in, but it is definitely, somehow the worst situation he could imagine. He opens his mouth to speak and slams it shut as a Faun watcher steps into their path and greets them. They had been closer to camp than they had thought.    
  
Lancelot's mood does not improve when they return to their daily lives. When he is with Percival or Pym he seems happier, but when he retires to their tent at night, he is closed off and short with Gawain. It hurts his heart, but he keeps it to himself, lets Lancelot lash out, sulk. He gives him time, but after three days he can’t take it anymore. He intends to approach him about it after todays training.

At the training grounds Kaze is in charge today and insists on those in training dueling one another. She selects the opponents herself. He prays to the hidden but they do not hear him. And Keir and Lancelot are paired together. It’s a cliche and he hangs his head, prays instead for Lancelot to refrain from killing him, intentionally or accidentally. Curses the Greeks for the poetry and plays he has read that have his heart beating rapidly in his chest and focuses on his breathing. He hates that they aren’t wearing armor today, they should be but they aren't. This training had been an impromptu session and no one was prepared for it. Sometimes they did this on purpose though. It did happen that you were attacked without your armor on, vulnerable and you had to know how to compensate for it. When he looks up from his boots, they're very interesting, he notes Kaze looking at him inquisitive and shrugs. She rolls her eyes and starts the match. Neither of them doubts the outcome.    
  
Gawain can’t tear his eyes away from the fluidity of Lancelot's movements as he dances away from Keirs blade. He was made to move, that he must do so as a warrior while sad certainly does not stop Gawain from admiring it, wishing he was a dancer, a performer, or wondering just how flexible he actually is. Gawain can see the way Lancelot is taunting Keir, the anger burning in both their eyes. Keir does not manage to get a hit in but is bleeding from a gash on his bicep and forearm. Lancelot back handsprings out of the way of a downward strike, the show off, and swipes at Keirs thigh before spinning out of the way, putting himself behind Keir. 

He won’t step in. He can't, it would only make this entire thing, whatever it is, worse. He glances at Kaze who hasn’t a clue and then goes back to the fight. Only…. There are no longer swords. Keir has thrown his blade to the ground and runs to bodily tackle Lancelot, who in a burst of speed throws his own blade to the ground and digs his feet in, bending his knees for the impact. He succeeds, Keir draws a fist back and punches Lancelot in the gut, Lancelot pushes him backwards and Keir stumbles but does not fall. Instead his lips move and Lancelot goes rigid. It’s all the opportunity Keir needs to knock him to the ground. 

Gawain is rooted to the spot. This is no longer a duel but a brawl. They should step in, break it up, only Kaze isn’t moving either. No one is. He has no idea what was said, but he has a few ideas. None of them are pretty, none of them good. His eye goes wide, when Lancelot finally manages to regain the upper hand and restrains Keir's arms behind him, yells yield loud enough for everyone to hear, and instead Keir slams his head back, breaking Lancelot's nose. It gushes blood down his face, his lip looks split as well. Lancelot rolls out of the way of a rib cracking kick and gets to his feet, retrieves his sword and looks pointedly at Gawain, past Keir. He knows that look. Still, he can’t move. Watches with cold blood as Keir lifts his blade and charges Lancelot, who parries, and parries again. Defensive. Only defensive.    
  
“Kaze”, he manages despite the lead coating his tongue, the dryness in his mouth “Stop them. If Lancelot attacks now, it will be to kill.” Kaze does not move, mesmerized, like the others at the way Lancelot seems to be losing. Losing ground, covered in blood from a broken nose, and now from a cut on his side, it was aimed lower. Finally he gets his feet to work, draws his blade and steps pointedly between them. Lancelot to his back. Always. Lancelot steps to the side, feet parted, blade at his side, ready to end this if it becomes necessary. Menacing almost. The silent wraith he had been visible in his shadow. Keir smirks,    
  
“Afraid I’d kill your toy.” His voice drips with that same sweetness as it had before, mocking.    
  
“If he wanted you dead you would be. I’m saving you.” He responds, locks eyes, ignores everyone else and waits.    
  
“Like he killed you?” Keir bites, adjusting his grip on his blade.    
  
“He did kill me, which is why I know he can kill you. Put your sword away. Both of you. That’s a match. Who's up next?” No one moves. He groans. He is livid. He expects better of his men.    
  
“I said WHO IS NEXT?” Movement breaks the air around him and he sucks in a deep breath, stares Keir down and the man has the audacity to step closer to him, blade still drawn. He hears Lancelot shift behind him, territorial indeed.    
  
“You’ll regret it, Green Knight, sleeping with a traitor. The hidden must have known your heart. It’s no wonder they denied you the rest of the Green.” With that he turns and walks away. Gawain stands, heart beating fast, fire in his veins. Lancelot shifts behind him again and he whirls around, grabs the dark haired man by the bicep of his non sword arm and drags him away from the training ground, away from the camp. Blue eyes go wide, but Lancelot makes no move to break free of the bruising grasp or to ask questions. He just follows as they walk deeper and deeper into the darkening woods. 

When they finally do stop, both of them are breathless, chests heaving for air. Gawain's stride had been relentless and unbroken for the better part of an hour. Gawain takes a few more steps and stops, his back to Lancelot and finally puts his blade, still gripped achingly tight in his hand, away. He can hear the ring of Lancelots mimicking the motion behind him. Now that he is here he has no idea what he wants to do. What he intends to say. He lets out a breath and tries to calm himself, unsuccessfully. He turns and opens his mouth only to close it with an audible clink of his teeth.    
  
Lancelot is looking at him in that way that makes him feel like he’s being taken apart, inch by agonizing inch. It makes his stomach flip, he does not need the desire to take him to bed in this mix right now, but the longer he looks the more he can’t help but shift uncomfortably.    
  
“I’ve made you angry.” And the bastard has the audacity to smirk at him, the right side of his lips curling upwards, pulling the split in his lower lip open, Gawain focuses on the blood welling up. The blood from his nose has partially been wiped away, but where it hasn’t dried and begun to fleck away new blood glistens in the evening light.    
  
“Not. No. YES! Yes you have. ” He strides towards Lancelot so they are less than a foot away, and drops his voice to severe disappointment, speaking through nearly clenched teeth, shoulders squared, “You've been sulking for days. Won’t even fucking answer me when I ask you a question! And thank the gods you refrained from killing him. What the hell happened out there?”    
  
Blue eyes stare into his own, boring into his soul. Lancelot doesn’t even flinch. Instead he does smile, bloodied teeth and lips on display.    
  
“I wanted to.” He whispers, the smell of copper and iron caught between them, mixing with sweat still clinging to their skin and their clothes, “I’ve wanted to for days.” Lancelot doesn’t blink and it should unnerve him, but it doesn’t. It does quite the opposite and he shifts again, trying to ignore the arousal in his stomach the growing stiffness between his legs. He chokes out one word.    
  
“Why?” He licks his lips, darts his eyes across Lancelot's face and the man tilts his head to the side and smiles softly. It’s a smile Gawain has only seen a handful of times, only when they’re alone. Mischief glints in his eyes as he steps closer, so they are almost touching and mumbles,    
  
“Do you really not know?” Gawain shakes his head, he is prey and he has been caught by his white lion. Lancelot strokes his thumb over Gawains cheek bone and back until it rests in his hair. He feels his heart beat quicker with every touch until a sharp pain draws his attention. Lancelot pulls his hair and he tilts his head back to avoid the pain. Lancelot leans down, scents his neck, lets the tip of his tongue brush against the warm of aGwain's neck. He stiffles a moan as Lancelot pulls back and whispers,   
  
“He tried to touch you.” Acid.   
  
“It bothered you?” He strains, breathless. They both know he could get out of this. But he doesn’t want to. He relishes the loss of control, willingly hands it to Lancelot for the moment.    
  
“Yes.” Honesty.    
  
“Why?” Hope.    
  
Lips, wet with blood crash against his and he leans into it. Presses himself fully against Lancelot, snakes his hands into curls and pulls the man closer. Licks at his lips, it isn’t the first time he’s tasted blood and it won’t be the last. That it is Lancelot's blood on his tongue sends a shiver of delight down his spine. Lancelot opens his mouth, accepts him deeper, lets him learn the ridges of his soft palate, the edges of his teeth, his tongue. The first moan he draws from the ashman has him ready to remove his clothing as he walks backward half tripping until he is pinned between Lancelot's warm pliant body, and the rough bark of a tree. He can feel the others excitement pressed against his thigh and grins into the kiss.    
  
He breaks it, realization dawning as the taste of iron sits on his tongue. Lancelot looks at him, eyes heavy and dark filled with desire. With lust.    
  
“You haven’t answered my question.” He states licking his own lips clean of the others blood.    
  
“Haven’t I?”    
  
Gawain shakes his head no and Lancelot shakes his in amusement. Seriousness settles over his features again and he looks Gawain in the eye.    
  
“You’re Mine. I can smell it. What my very presence does to you like nobody else's. Even his.” Lancelot growls nose pressed to the juncture of Gawain's neck as he kisses him there, sucks light enough not to leave a mark, and hard enough to make his point. He trails kisses up to Gawain's ear,    
  
“Am I wrong?”    
  
“No,” He exhales, thanks the tree behind him for its support his knees feel weak. When Lancelot kisses him again he groans, lets him explore. The anger seeps out of them and is replaced by long denied lust. Gawain closes his eyes, runs his hands over fabric looking for purchase, trying to figure out the best way to get him out of his clothes. His sword belt falls to the ground with a thud and he notes almost absently that Lancelot is doing the same to him, just a bit further south. He matches him,removes his belts, fights the lacing of his breeches desperate not to break the kiss. Though he knows Lancelot's nose is probably well on the way to being swollen and difficult to breathe through. He moans and his hips cant forward when calloused fingers come in contact with his cock. His head falls back reddish brown hair tangling in the tree bark. He doesn’t give up his own work and finally manages to give back. Lancelot groans into his neck where his lips have fallen. They stay like that a moment, simply touching one another before Lancelotst hands snake up and work at the ties of Gawain's Gambeson, he obliges, helps undo the ties there and on his undershirt letting both garments fall open. Lancelot bites him above his clavicle, now exposed and he gasps, leans into him seeking his touch. Lancelot grips his hips and pushes the fabric down exposing him completely and he thinks it should be the other way around but can’t bring himself to care. He wants this badly. And he won’t stop Lancelot if he is freely giving it… which since he instigated it, is being very enthusiastic about it….. He feels teeth skim over a nipple and lets his hands find Lancelot's hair. Sucks in a deep breath, even as his tongue teases it before Lancelot continues kissing his way down. He feels Lancelot's tongue trace his belly button before dipping in. It tickles and he's glad he washed this morning while Lancelot had been off praying.    
  
“Wait.” His voice is firm, his grip on Lancelot's shoulders firmer, but the man stops, obediently and looks up at him, confusion clearly written in the frown he wears. His shirt is rumpled and hitched up in places, tilted off to the side. He’s kneeling before Gawain. His stomach flops, He should not appreciate this view the way he does. How many times had he knelt before Carden and the priests and… He shoves that away. This wasn’t an act of submission Lancelot was, up until Gawain asked him to stop, in control of the situation.    
  
“What is it?” He asks softly, almost innocently. “Have I—”   
  
“No! No. Just are you sure. Isn’t this a sin for you?” He could fall on his sword now, or preferably Lancelot would run him through for the reminder. Another man would have let this continue without a single thought to their partners eternal damnation. But Lancelot just looks up at him, smiles, throws his head back and laughs so hard his shoulder shakes. After a moment Lancelot turns back to him, meets his eyes and grins, replaces his hands on Gawain's hips, rubs circles into the bone there, almost harsh enough to bruise. Gawain watches as his eyes fall closed, long dark eyelashes fanning across his cheeks. He’s absolutely beautiful like this, shirt distraught, face flushed with exertion and laughter, the bruising not yet coloring and otherwise maring his features, weeping lines mesmerizing as they always are. Lancelot's cock hangs free of its confines, long and full and slightly curved to attention, head completely visible from lack of foreskin, another crime Gawain will kill paladins over. Gawain could look at him all day, but really he’s starting to ache and is about to say something snarky about it when Lancelot opens kiss swollen and still bloodied lips and speaks in fluent latin.    
  
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Only, I ask you forgive me again, and again, and again,” He opens his eyes, flicks his tongue over his lips, looks at Gawain's cock and the up at his eyes and back, “ and again as I am but a sinner, incapable of resisting such temptation as that before me. Amen.” The man between his legs leans forward and kisses the base of his cock, the rest brushing against day old stubble. He shudders sensitive, swallows and relaxes his grip on Lancelot's shoulders. Lancelot takes him in hand again, and pumps him at a rough pace. The friction is almost painful. He is distracted by it as Lancelot licks his way back to his hip and bites hard. He shudders and revels in the feel of it, in the gentleness of the tongue that laps away the sting. Lancelot teasingly drags his lips and tongue down until they settle against the base of his manhood again and then along the length of it. Lancelot's mouth is warm and deliciously wet, like he’s been waiting at a table to feast, as he slips inside. He feels the drag of tongue and the graze of teeth as Lance takes him further in, bobbing his head, hallowing his cheeks to accommodate him. When he swallows reflexively around him, Gawain moans, tightens his hand on his shoulders and drags him further forward, but strong hands on his hips prevent him from coming completely undone and fucking into his mouth. 

After another moment or two Lancelot moans around him and pulls off with a slurp saliva coating his slips as he stands and drags Gawain into another kiss. He goes freely, working at the ties on Lancelot's own shirt and shoves it roughly down his shoulders, urgent and needy. He tries to shrug out of his own, but Lancelot stops him by firmly tugging the fabric back into place. The shudder that runs down Lancelot's spine when they bump together makes him grin and he takes them both in hand, pressed together and pumps them in a rhythmic pattern, Lancelot glares at him and dives in kissing his neck, sucking another bruise into his chest. He can’t be bothered about them. Lancelot moans and shudders again before pulling back and shoving him. He goes readily where he is led. 

He is led to the ground and licks his lips, if Lancelot wants him to suck him off he’d be happy too. Lancelot kneels too and works at the laces of his boots. It’s quick work and he shucks his trousers off with them.    
  
“I’m guessing you’re as unprepared for this as I am?” He nods, looks up to meet blue eyes and opens his mouth,    
  
“We’ll make due.” Lancelot nods, and taps his cock against Gawain's cheek. Smears precum along his jaw until he reaches his lips, the glide is smooth. Without hesitation Gawain takes him willingly into his mouth, his purpose two fold, pleasure him, but also slick him up as best as possible. It will hurt anyways, he's sure, but maybe a bit less. Lancelot rests his hand on his cheek, over the line of damp, rubs his thumb over his cheek bone and Gawain's stomach flip flops at the gentleness of that gesture compared to the rest of them. He looks up and meets a steady gaze. He doesn’t swallow, lets the drool pool in his mouth, around the cock sitting on his tongue. He closes his eyes, relaxes his throat and takes it as deep as he can.

Finally he pulls off and breathless, red faced, and lips swollen looks up then rolls onto his front. The forest floor isn’t the most comfortable place, but the clearing is mostly mossy and is littered with autumn leaves. Lancelot shifts over him, kisses his shoulder, along his spine, grips his hips tight enough to bruise and he lets out a hiss. Every touch is ice on his skin. He spreads his knees…    
  
“Lie on your back. I want to watch you.” 

Obediently he switches positions, spreads his legs. Lancelot slips between them, licks his fingers, coating them as thoroughly as possible and trails the ones from his other hand down Gawains thigh as he does so. Then he leans forward, kisses his thigh up and down as he presses one finger against his entrance. Gawain shudders in anticipation, tries to force his body to relax. He could stop this, suggest that they just get eachother off for now, go back to their tent and do this a bit more properly. But the fire in his veins, the desire in Lancelot's eyes, the entire scenario is too much so he stays where he is, breathes through his mouth and out his nose. 

Lancelot bites him as he inserts a finger as far as it will go. His back arches off the ground, screaming trapped under Lancelot's other hand.    
  
Lancelot is patient, lets him recover before he moves his finger at all. When he does it is in slow methodical ways, a slow drag out, a push back in, a curl, and eventually he adds a second barely wet finger. HIs eyes water from the burn, and Lancelot leans over him, kisses his cheek and then his lips. The taste of blood is still present, though his nose seems to have stopped bleeding.    
  
“Shhh, I know.” He whispers, “Do you need me to stop.” Gawain shakes his head and Lancelot smirks.    
  
“Good. I fully intend to claim you. Keep being good for me.” Gawain nods again and seeks out his lips. The kiss is freely given and he revels in it even as a drier third finger pushes inside with the rest. He whimpers into Lancelot's mouth, and the man pulls completely away. The desire is evident in his eyes but he seems torn. He brushes hair from Gawain's face and lets his fingers stop at his chin.    
  
“Spit.”    
  
He obeys without a thought. Lancelot rubs his fingers together and leans over him again, revisiting old bruises as he continues his work. When he finishes he strokes himself, notes that the saliva has dried some and spits into his own hand a couple times before wetting himself with it. He repositions himself between Gawain's legs, pushes him up a bit and presses the head of his cock against the tight rim of muscle, watches it spasm in anticipation for a moment. Gawian swallows, licks his lips and nods at Lancelot who pushes into him slowly. It burns, and it’s much too tight. The spit just enough to ease the way but not enough to make it comfortable. It hurts but only just past the point of pleasure. When Lancelot bottoms out they stay there for a moment while he breathes. Lancelot leans over him, pressing further in and kisses him roughly.    
  
“Whose are you?” He hums against his lips and Gawain inhales sharply.    
  
“Yours.” His breath catches in his throat.    
  
“And if anyone tries to touch you again, what are you going to tell them?” Lancelot inquires nibbling at his earlobe.    
  
“That I’m yours.” He manages, the idea of being at Lancelot's complete mercy, of being his in every way, even as he is in this moment is enough to bring him to the edge.    
  
“Was that really so hard to confess?” Lancelot purs against his chest.   
  
“No.” He chokes out, shifts against the cock inside him.    
  
“Good. Let me reward you.” A kiss to his chest, the scrape of blunt nails along his thigh hard enough to draw blood. He shudders and tosses his head back at the feeling of it. Lancelot withdraws a little presses back in, slow and rhythmic, careful not to tear anything, until sweat and added spit slick the way enough for him to get some speed and power behind his thrusts. Gawain locks his fingers in dark curls, doesn’t pull, His gut and tells him this would be too much for Lancelot. He arches his back off the ground, grateful that his shirt and Gambeson sit between his skin and the dirt, to meet Lancelot's thrusts even as they grow more frantic and out of control. He knows they're both close, have been for a while. He lets go of Lancelot's hair with one hand and lowers it between them, strokes his own cock and Lancelot watches, sweat beading on his forehead, landing on Gawain's slicked chest.    
  
“Lance,” He manages hoarsely, “Lance please.” He begs, wanton and unabashed.    
  
“Please what?” His lover responds tersely above him.    
  
He locks his ankles behind Lancelot's back and pulls him deeper. “Make me yours.” He says meeting blue eyes one final time before he brings himself over the edge throwing his head back. Lancelot kisses his neck again, breathes deep and spills inside him.    
  
Neither moves as they come down from their joined ecstasy. Gawain relaxes his legs on either side of Lancelot but wraps his arm around him instead as he lays most of his weight on Gawian and some on his arm. They gasp in deep breaths sharing air. Gawain kisses his forehead and then smiles. He is content to stay where they are but the ashman has different plans. When he moves away, Gawain sits up and watches him look around the clearing.    
  
“We should dress,” he says, pulling his trousers up, “Someone is coming.” He bends and throws Gawain his pants. Gawain grins and ties his shirt closed.    
  
“I’m yours. Remember? What does it matter if they see?”   
  
“It’s Percival!” Lancelot deadpans and Gawain gets to his feet. He is sure he’s never dressed so fast in his life as they exit the clearing and move towards where Percival is. Better they run into him then he find them, at least until they can decide how to tell him. Percival stares at them for a moment, furrows his brows and shakes his head.    
  
“Kaze sent me to make sure you didn’t kill each other. And that Lancelot sees a healer for his nose.” He says and starts back towards camp, sunset on the horizon. Neither of them notice what he had. In their haste to dress, they switched sword belts. 


End file.
